


The Mate Bond

by AmyTheAuthor



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Drama & Romance, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Male Slash, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-06-02 02:59:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6547903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyTheAuthor/pseuds/AmyTheAuthor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Slytherin bloodline contained creature genetics from secret crossbreeding. In 1926, young Tom Riddle had been born with a unique inheritance. It was that which had caused him to feel empty and turn to the Dark Arts. Why? He'd had no mate. However, on June 24th 1995, Tom, now Voldemort, learned that his mate was Harry Potter. (Very Fluffy, Drama, Romance, HP/LV, SLASH, Rated M)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Voldemort shifted his weight from one foot to the other impatiently.   
  
He stood outside the wards of number 4 Privet Drive, watching the house with worry and stress.   
  
The street lights were not lit and Voldemort had already cast a silencing charm around the house and himself so none of the other Muggles would hear the commotion.   
  
The lights were still on inside the residence belonging to Harry Potter's relatives.   
  
He could hear the desperate cries of his lover inside.   
  
They were beating him and Voldemort had no chance of getting inside for another hour, which was when Harry was of age and the wards would then break.   
  
His imagination was running a mile per minute.   
  
Harry was Voldemort's long, lost mate and they had hid their relationship from the Wizarding World ever since their discovery of this news, which was in the graveyard during Harry's fourth year.   
  
Hearing his lover cry out in pain was setting his predatory need to kill and protect on overload.   
  
He was thinking up the worst scenarios that could possibly lead to Harry's death at the hands of those disgusting Muggles.   
  
His body was twitching with anticipation and adrenaline.   
  
He wanted to torture those people the way they were torturing Harry, but slower and, instead of mere hours, he wanted them to bleed and beg and unhinge for days until they died of dehydration and overexertion.   
  
He wouldn't be merciful by using the killing curse.   
  
They deserved no mercy.   
  
Another loud, anguished cry filled the night air and Voldemort's weight shifted to the other foot again.   
  
"My Lord," came the smooth voice of Lucius Malfoy from behind the twitching Dark Lord.   
  
"What took you so long?" Voldemort growled, never turning from or taking his eyes off the house before him.   
  
"My Lord," came the shocked tone of his follower, "I came within minutes after receiving your summons."   
  
Voldemort remained facing away from the kneeling Malfoy as his arm extended behind him, pointing his wand at the man before whispering, "Crucio."   
  
Lucius curled into himself before both knees were on the pavement.   
  
His chest lurched forward, his back arched, and his pained expression was revealed to the stars above.   
  
A gurgling came from the back of his throat just before the first set of seizure-like spasms overtook his body.   
  
A moment later, the wand was withdrawn and the spell along with it.   
  
Voldemort allowed Lucius to catch his breath before he spoke.   
  
"You will go inside and retrieve the boy. Now!"   
  
Lucius, as gracefully as possible, rose to a standing and, in long, quick strides, approached the house.   
  
Before he could step from pavement to sidewalk, the invisible barrier-wards lit up where his foot came into contact and, after a short pause, electrocuted him and sent him flying backwards.   
  
Voldemort sidestepped to avoid the collision and glared at the house.   
  
Of course Dumbledore would also ward against those with the dark mark.   
  
He was aware of that beforehand, but he had wanted Lucius to set off the alarms, which would cause the Order to arrive and retrieve Harry before he died at the hands of those filthy abominations.   
  
Voldemort finally turned away from his lover's prison and approached the Death Eater groaning on the ground.   
  
Kneeling, he touched the man's leg and apparated them to Malfoy manor.   
  
"You did well, Lucius," he praised the surprised man who nodded and thanked him with wide eyes.   
  
The other two Malfoys within the room mirrored his shock, but Voldemort paid them no mind.   
  
He would never admit it, but he was just as surprised by his actions as they were.   
  
Harry's bleeding heart was to blame; Voldemort was sure of it.   
  
He apparated himself back and waited in the shadows for the Order to arrive and attack.   
  
Muffled shouts could still be heard within the two-story townhouse.   
  
Harry's voice was the loudest and it frustrated Voldemort to no end.   
  
Where was Dumbledore's precious Order?   
  
As much as he wished otherwise, he needed them to rescue his mate.   
  
Voldemort was growing more angry and impatient by the second.   
  
The wards should have alerted the Order immediately.   
  
Why weren't they rushing to protect the Wizarding World's supposed savior?   
  
Did no one truly care about Harry the way Voldemort did?   
  
The minutes felt like hours while he scanned the perimeter for any signs of another wizard and listened to the sound of his lover's cries.   
  
Still, no one came.   
  
In a fit of rage, he approached the barriers, pointed his wand and cast every spell he could think of.   
  
The wards held.   
  
The sound of glass shattering filled Voldemort's ears and he watched in horror as his mate plummeted from the second floor to the ground with a THUD.   
  
"Harry!" Voldemort shouted, pacing as he tried to get a better view from the street.   
  
Harry rose and stumbled forward, walking in a disoriented manner.   
  
"Come back here, boy," came a man's shout from inside the house. "I'll stop you from becoming another one of those freaks. Come back here!"   
  
As soon as Harry saw Voldemort beckoning him to come to him, his face lit up with hope.   
  
He limped impatiently toward the Dark Lord, whispering between panting breaths over and over, "You're here...you're here...you came...you're here..."   
  
"Yes, Harry," Voldemort called softly. "Come to me."   
  
Harry was almost to the sidewalk when the door swung open and Voldemort could no longer ignore the shouting from Harry's relatives because they all burst out of the doorway.   
  
The fat man was screaming something about a "freak" while the woman was hanging onto his shoulder and shouting for him to "stop" and something about "jail," while the fat teenager just gaped from behind them, mute and shocked.   
  
It only took a moment for Voldemort to see the shotgun in the fat man's hands.   
  
Harry had stopped and looked behind him, frozen after spotting the gun.   
  
"Run, Harry," Voldemort shouted, opening his arms. "Run to me."   
  
Voldemort didn't realize that it wasn't Harry that the gun was pointing at, but Harry did.   
  
The boy's awkward limping disappeared as adrenaline overcame his senses.   
  
He ran with all his might toward his lover and jumped into his arms.   
  
Voldemort was barely aware of the sound of the gunshot before he apparated them away.   
  
Harry's arms were wrapped around his neck in a death grip.   
  
Voldemort was holding him just as tightly around the waist.   
  
"Tom," Harry choked into his chest. "Thank you for coming for me."   
  
Voldemort frowned when he felt it: the gathering of warm blood beneath his arms.   
  
"The boy bleeds, My Lord," Narcissa informed him, speaking quickly and urgently.   
  
Voldemort apparated them away a second time.   
  
Now they stood in the middle of St. Mungo's, everyone stopping to gasp at the sight of the Dark Lord.   
  
Voldemort grimaced and ignored them.   
  
Healing Harry came first; killing annoying, gawking bystanders came second.   
  
"Harry Potter," he shouted, "has been shot by a Muggle weapon. Save him and I shall spare your lives."   
  
No one moved.   
  
"Now!"   
  
People screamed and rushed around in a disorderly fashion, some to help and most to hide.   
  
Three doctors and two nurses brought a bed to him.   
  
He made to put the boy down, but Harry's grip did not loosen.   
  
"Harry, love," he ignored the startled gasps, "let go. They will heal you."   
  
There was no response.   
  
He looked to the nurses. "Hurry," he urged.   
  
They quickly grabbed Harry's legs and positioned his body onto the bed as Voldemort pried the arms from around his neck.   
  
His heart slammed against his ribs when he saw his mate's closed eyes and bloodless face.   
  
The nurses and doctors rushed him to the emergency area, trying their best to ignore the creepy way Voldemort hovered in the air above their heads, effortlessly keeping pace with their fast jogging, his robes billowing around him and legs invisible within a haze of blackness, which made him look blurry around the edges.   
  
He stared down at his mate with a murderous expression.   
  
Reaching their destination, they immediately began scanning his body, casting spells, and pouring potions down his unresponsive throat.   
  
One doctor levitated Harry, flipped him over, and suddenly the boy was as naked as the day he was born.   
  
After seeing the wounds covering his mate's back, Voldemort was able to resist his possessive growl, but not the one of rage.   
  
Unfortunately it had startled the medics and they fearfully looked up at his floating form.   
  
"Hesitate to save my mate again," Voldemort reprimanded them and they flinched, immediately continuing their tasks, "and I will show no mercy!"   
  
Once the doctors and nurses had found their pace and had almost forgotten the intimidating presence of the Dark Lord, Voldemort fell into a rhythm as well.   
  
He studied Harry's body for any independent movement, any sounds, any breathing.   
  
He was watching his mate with rapture, transfixed on the boy's shallow breathing.   
  
He willed his mate to live, to continue breathing, and to wake up.   
  
To say that Voldemort wanted to torture Harry's relatives was an understatement.   
  
He would no longer make them wait for their deaths after mere days of torture.   
  
No.   
  
He would make them wait for years.   
  
They would be kept barely alive.   
  
He would watch their bodies thin and their minds unhinge with madness.   
  
They would never hurt his mate again.   
  
The bullets were pulled from Harry's back and they levitated him to wrap clean bandages around his torso to cover the bullet wounds and a few others.   
  
His arm was broken, they had then realized, and they fixed it with a spell and a CRACK.   
  
When they turned him over, everyone flinched away from Voldemort's roar.   
  
There were bleeding welts covering the entirety of Harry's body, even on the sensitive and precious organ between his legs.   
  
A powerful surge of magic pulsed through the room, filled with anger, hatred, and fear.   
  
One of the nurses whimpered.   
  
"Please, sir," she squeaked timidly and the medics around her froze, hoping she would not continue speaking, "we can't save him with you in here."   
  
She let out a choked cry when she was lifted from the ground by an invisible force around her neck.   
  
Fearing for the woman's life, the doctor nearest the boy's head, 'accio'ed a potion to his hand and poured it down Harry's throat.   
  
The boy immediately sucked in a greedy gasp of air.   
  
When his mate's eyes opened wide, the woman was dropped and forgotten as Voldemort flew down to loom over his beloved's face.   
  
"Harry!"   
  
The green eyes did not seem to register anything around him, but he croaked, "Tom?"   
  
"Yes, Harry."   
  
The relief in the Dark Lord's voice was obvious.   
  
"You're here," Harry breathed.   
  
"I am," Voldemort nodded, gently brushing his knuckles across the boy's forehead.   
  
Harry seemed to be trying to focus as he searched Voldemort's face. "The gun," he said, then gasped, his eyes widening. "I tried to block it. Did it hit you?"   
  
"No," Voldemort replied as his fingers ran through his lover's short, wild, black hair.   
  
"Thank goodness," came Harry's relieved sigh.   
  
Suddenly, Harry frowned and sucked in a sharp breath.   
  
Voldemort was immediately alert, listening to every little sound in the room. "What is it? Are they hurting you?" He glared at the few medics within eyesight. "I'll kill them."   
  
"Tom," Harry called out, "he beat me so hard right...right there! What if I can't..."   
  
Tears gathered in those beautiful green eyes and Voldemort knew immediately what Harry was talking about.   
  
His heart broke.   
  
"What if I can't..." Harry choked, trying to continue his sentence.   
  
Voldemort silently called a potion to his palm and Harry eyed it through his watery vision.   
  
"See this?" he asked and, when Harry nodded, he continued. "This will cure everything."   
  
Harry closed his eyes, the tears now sliding down his temples, and smiled.   
  
"Thank you," he whispered gratefully.

  
Voldemort was suddenly irrationally possessive.   
  
He opened the potion, dumped the contents into his mouth, pulled Harry's chin down with his thumb to part those beautiful lips, and transferred the liquid with a passionate kiss.   
  
When he pulled away, he stared possessively down at Harry's swollen lips that were now red rather than a natural pink.   
  
"Thank you," was all Harry could say before he slipped into unconsciousness.   
  
That had been a regular sleeping potion, of course, but Voldemort knew that Harry's drugged mind would not have understood.   
  
He was aware of the doctors maneuvering around him as they continued their work, but he ignored them.   
  
His Harry was alive and now he was of age.   
  
Nothing would stop this Mate Bond any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tumblr geared specifically toward Harry/Tom and Harry/Voldemort. I have decided I'll start talking about my Fics and Fic ideas as well as my original writing on there too, so if you want to follow me, feel free. Also, I love making HP friends, so message me on there if you want! :) http://amytheauthor.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

Voldemort sat in a chair beside the large, four-poster bed that cradled his precious one.

  
He held a book open in his lap, but could not pry his blood-shot eyes away from watching Harry's chest rise and fall.   
  
After the medical team at St. Mungo's had finished their healing, Harry's magic had begun to mature.   
  
Now, while it was standard for all witches and wizards to be put into a potion-induced coma during the maturing process of their magical core, it was not standard for any witch or wizard to begin this process before the fourteenth night of their seventeenth birthday.   
  
Everyone had been dumbfounded.   
  
Including Voldemort, much to his own disappointment.   
  
He knew Harry was unique.   
  
He should have foreseen this.   
  
Harry's magic had blown most of them off their feet and had deteriorated parts of the walls in the emergency room.   
  
The doctors were forced to put him in a potion-induced coma so his body would not be harmed and instructed Voldemort to apparate him away.   
  
It was required of him to keep Harry naked for the Coming of Age ritual.   
  
He had not wanted anyone to see his mate's body unless it was absolutely necessary, so he had summoned only three of his most trusted Death Eaters to the forest.   
  
After the ritual had finished, Harry had been bloody, naked, and unconscious in the dirt for exactly thirty-two hours.   
  
Special, palm-sized stones had been circled around him in to absorb the excess magic he had been radiating.   
  
Voldemort had stayed just outside the barrier of stones without sleep, hoping with every fiber of his being that Harry would not bleed out and die.   
  
Once Narcissa Malfoy had finally finished finding and collecting enough of the rare, magic-absorbing stones as Voldemort had ordered her to, she lined them up underneath the mattress of the bed Harry now lay upon, sure to cover every inch of the mattress from below, and alerted her Lord that Harry could now be moved to Malfoy Mansion.   
  
Voldemort had apparated Harry to the specified room.   
  
He and Narcissa had tried to situate him onto the bed as comfortably as possible before having to pull their hands away to stop his magic from surging painfully through their bones.   
  
Voldemort still had not slept since.   
  
Tonight was the fourth night that Harry remained unconscious and wounded.   
  
Until he knew his mate was just as safe as he was alive, he would not sleep.   
  
His gaze traveled from Harry's chest to his feet.   
  
He was still naked, bloody, and covered in filth.   
  
They didn't dare cover him with a blanket.   
  
His fever from fighting the wounds he had suffered at the hands of his uncle was still heating him at uncomfortable levels and Voldemort feared internal damage.   
  
All they could do was pour different potions down his throat every few hours.   
  
Voldemort felt so useless.   
  
He couldn't even protect his mate from non-magicals.   
  
If that wasn't pathetic, he didn't know what was.   
  
Voldemort was so caught up in his scrambled, tired thoughts that he did not hear the door open behind him.   
  
However, he did hear the surprised intake of air and the sound of knees hitting the hardwood floor.   
  
"My Lord," came the voice of young Draco Malfoy, "I apologize. I was unaware of the situation until a moment ago. I did not know you were in here. I will leave immediately."   
  
"State your business, boy," Voldemort grouched, keeping his gaze fixed solely on Harry.   
  
"I came to see Potter..." The boy was too late to take back his words and immediately followed up with a high-pitched, "I-I-I mean, I came to see..."   
  
"Enough," Voldemort snarled before he could stop himself. "Why have you come to see my mate?"   
  
Just then, Harry's head tossed to the side.   
  
It was the first sign of independent movement in four days.   
  
Voldemort was immediately on his feet, staring down at Harry, wishing he could lean forward over the bed, just to be closer, without being slammed with waves of magic.   
  
"Harry?" he only partly whispered, too eager for a response to be too quiet.   
  
Harry coughed softly and groaned.   
  
Voldemort's heart rate sped up.   
  
His mate was waking up!   
  
Harry's lips parted and he frowned. "Nn..."   
  
Now Voldemort's heart skipped a beat entirely.   
  
He wanted to hear his mate's voice so badly.   
  
"Uh..." Harry breathed out. "Nn...Draco?"   
  
Draco?

Voldemort's exhausted mind took a moment to catch up.

_Draco?_   
  
He saw red...   
  
...and when he came back to his senses, he had a terrified Malfoy pinned against a wall with the Elder Wand at his throat.   
  
"Tell me, Draco," he hissed, "how long do you think my mate has been dying?"   
  
Draco whimpered, eyeing what he could see of the wand threatening his life and trying not to look the Dark Lord in the eyes. "I-I..."   
  
"And tell me, Draco," Voldemort cut him off and leaned slightly closer, "how long have I been waiting to hear his voice?" After taking a deep breath through his nose, he clenched his jaw and growled out, "How long do you think I have waited to see his eyes open again?" After a short moment, he regrouped and returned to his soft hissing, "What do you think I want to do to the man whose name has claimed my mate's tongue?"   
  
Draco squeezed his eyes shut and let out something between a sob and a whine. "Please," he whispered, an unwanted squeak within every word, "I don't want to die."   
  
They both felt their hearts slam painfully against their ribs when a blood-curdling cry of agony ripped through the room.   
  
Draco found a weight lifted from him and fell to the floor, too shocked to recover fast enough to prevent the fall.   
  
Voldemort was at Harry's side in seconds.   
  
He watched as Harry's body contorted in painful-looking positions, like a fish out of water, or, more accurately, like someone under the Cruciatus Curse.   
  
His green eyes were wide open, searching left to right.   
  
"Severus!" Voldemort shouted, using wandless magic to call to Snape’s mark.   
  
"To-" Harry hiccoughed as he sobbed, "-om! Where are-"-hiccough-"you?"   
  
Trying to sound as calm as possible, he called out softly, "I'm right here, Harry."   
  
Harry's head snapped to the side, searching for his mate in the general direction he had heard him.   
  
Without his glasses, Harry was practically blind.   
  
"Tom," he whined, still sobbing as his body convulsed against the mattress, "something's wrong. It..." he stopped to try to strangle a hiccough,"...it hurts so much!"   
  
Severus apparated to the foot of the bed with a SNAP.   
  
"Potions!" Voldemort bellowed. "All of them. Whatever he needs. Now!"   
  
Severus rushed around the bed to stop beside the Dark Lord.   
  
He examined Harry as best he could from outside the stones' barrier and shuffled inside his robes.   
  
"I will kill you if you don't hurry up!"   
  
Severus had already found the bottle he had wanted, but the shakiness of his hands had forced him to lose his grip more than once.   
  
Finally, he held it out to his Lord.   
  
"I need a few more, my Lord," he informed quickly, the fear evident in his voice.   
  
"Yes; hurry!"   
  
Now that Harry had heard his professor's voice, he tried to pinpoint him through his blurry vision.   
  
"Snape?" he whimpered.   
  
Severus did not spare him a glance before disapparating away.   
  
He hadn't the time.   
  
Harry yelped and jerked away from a touch against his lips.   
  
"Hold still," he heard Voldemort rage nearby, which only increased Harry's fear.   
  
His body was out of control, contracting, convulsing, and contorting painfully.   
  
He had no idea what was happening.   
  
There was so much fear swelling within his chest.   
  
Something warm was being ushered into his mouth.

  
It tasted terrible.   
  
He coughed some of it up before allowing the rest to flow smoothly down his trachea.   
  
He sobbed.   
  
Normally, he would try to stifle any humiliating noises, but right now he was in too much pain to care.   
  
A gentle hand caressed the side of his face and he felt some semblance of safety.   
  
"All will be well," Voldemort soothed.   
  
Harry turned his head to the side, wishing he could see his mate's face.   
  
He was unaware of his consciousness fading and his body stilling.   
  
"I love you, Tom," he heard his weak voice saying.   
  
Voldemort's heart stopped.   
  
Overwhelming fear surged through his veins like ice, making his skin prickle with goosebumps.   
  
Harry was still breathing, but only slightly.   
  
Before Voldemort could react, Severus appeared beside him and reached across the bed to give Harry another potion.   
  
To Voldemort, all hope was lost when he realized that neither he nor the potions master cringed from the pain of magical waves burning into their limbs.   
  
If there was no magic in the air, Harry was...   
  
Severus wasted no time.   
  
He poured potion after potion, each for different things, down Harry's throat.   
  
Finally, he leaned away from the boy and stood still beside his Lord.   
  
"It is done, my Lord," Severus sighed deeply and it sounded very much like he was relieved.   
  
Voldemort looked to Severus with a conflicted expression.   
  
Should he hope or prepare for the worst?   
  
"Explain, Severus," he demanded.   
  
Severus finally saw the raw emotion on the Dark Lord's face and immediately looked away.   
  
"Do not fret, my Lord," he told him quickly. "Lord Potter is perfectly safe and healthy. His magic has finished maturing."   
  
Relieved beyond belief and trying to hide his trembling hands from Severus' eyes, Voldemort leaned forward and stroked Harry's sweaty hair from his forehead.   
  
"Leave us."   
  
It was probably the softest and kindest demand Severus Snape had ever heard come from the Dark Lord's mouth.   
  
He turned away, prepared to apparate, when he saw Draco Malfoy standing against the far wall, watching him with wide eyes and a face void of color.   
  
"Malfoy as well, my Lord?"   
  
"Remove him from my presence at once," came the clipped, but still strangely soft reply.   
  
Severus approached Draco silently and, before they left, the boy whispered a fearful, "Thank you."   
  
Now that he knew they were completely alone, Voldemort allowed his face to show his inner turmoil and climbed into the bed beside his mate, hoping that lying down would help the trembling of his body to lessen.   
  
It didn't.   
  
"Tom," Harry mumbled quietly, turning toward him and snuggling his face into his neck.   
  
Voldemort quickly wrapped his right arm around Harry and pulled him closer.   
  
He was overwhelmed with relief and exhaustion.   
  
His mind quickly shut down and he fell asleep with his precious one safely pressed against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love to write about what Voldemort is feeling (obviously), but I have neglected to focus on Harry, so expect more of Harry's thoughts in the next chapter.  
> Was everything satisfactory?  
> You can let me know by reviewing, but, if you don't want to review, I also find subscribers very complimentary as well, so feel free to do so to receive updates. Thank you.
> 
> I have a tumblr geared specifically toward Harry/Tom and Harry/Voldemort. I have decided I'll start talking about my Fics and Fic ideas as well as my original writing on there too, so if you want to follow me, feel free. Also, I love making HP friends, so message me on there if you want! :) http://amytheauthor.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

Harry woke instantly alert as if he had never been asleep at all.

That was unusual.

He was used to feeling sluggish and dead in the mornings.

_What a strange dream,_ he thought for a short moment and then dismissed it for evaluation later.

His vision was already blurry without his glasses, but something else was obscuring his eyesight as well.

He leaned his head back from the warm object blocking his view only to feel warm air ghost down his face, from forehead to chin.

He shifted slightly, trying to pull away, only to realize that his entire body was searing hot, sweaty, and completely entangled with another.

Only one person would dare be this intimate with Harry.

Voldemort.

The Dark Lord.

_Tom_ , Harry thought, smiling slightly.

Voldemort’s warm legs were clamped over one of Harry’s bent knees.

Harry’s arms were bent and pressed between their bare chests.

The arm Voldemort was lying on was also between them.

His other arm was draped over Harry and his hand was pressing firmly against Harry’s back as if to keep him in place.

How he was doing that while asleep was beyond Harry’s comprehension.

Harry had come to discern that the warm breath above him was because his face had been buried in Voldemort’s neck, so, now that he had pulled away a few inches, the man’s soft, sleepy breathing was gently sweeping over his face.

Judging by the temperature of both their bodies, as well as the amount of slick sweat he could feel all over himself, he came to the conclusion that they had been lying like this for hours, most likely only twitching around occasionally to prevent dead arm.

Harry relaxed and an enormous amount of love spread like wildfire through his chest.

He was with his Tom, in a bed, warm, being held desperately, and feeling very cherished.

He couldn’t stop the wide smile that bloomed across his face.

It hurt his lips.

Were they chapped?

He was about to whisper his lover’s name, but, once his mind was focused on his mouth, he noticed that his throat was extremely dry, his lips were, in fact, chapped, and he definitely felt like he needed to brush his teeth.

There was no way he was waking the other man right now if he looked like a mess and smelled bad.

Deciding to get up and sneak away to the bathroom, he tried to pry his knee from between his legs, but Voldemort clamped them down harder.

He tried again, but this time by gently pulling his upper body away from the sweaty chest pressed against his skin like something sticky and hot.

Voldemort made a low, quiet noise and pressed him firmer into place with the hand on his back.

It didn’t take long, after trying a few more times, for Harry to admit that Voldemort, despite being asleep, was, for some strange reason, instinctively keeping him as close as possible.

While it made Harry happy, it also irritated him.

He wanted to slip away quietly to shower, brush his teeth, drink a gallon of much needed water, and return looking fresh and handsome.

_Damn it, Tom_ , Harry thought, cursing his lover fondly,  _stop making this difficult. You’re acting like I’ve...been...gone..._

Harry’s mind kicked into overdrive.

First, he realized that he did not recognize the feel of this mattress.

He turned his head to look up at the ceiling and what he could see of the walls.

Now he realized that they were not at Riddle Manor because the light coming in from the window was shining on the wrong side.

He had been sleeping in Voldemort’s bed at Riddle Manor as often as possible since his fifth year.

He was pretty confident that he would know where the window was.

So then...where were they?

And what had happened to the Dursley’s?

_The Dursley’s!_  He shouted internally.  _I remember Uncle Vernon’s belt and..._

The rest was a blur.

Why couldn’t he remember coming here to this nice bed and snuggling up with his lover?

_And we’re naked,_  Harry noted.  _Did we...?_

He gulped nervously, his heart beating against his ribs like a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

_We did say we would celebrate my coming of age..._

Harry had remained a virgin, since Voldemort had told him they would wait until he was seventeen and a legal adult before they would cross that line.

A flash of memory changed his thoughts back to the night at the Dursley’s.

He remembered jumping out the window.

_I jumped on purpose._  He frowned, as he stared up at what he could see of the ceiling, eyes unfocused and practically blind without his glasses, lost in his confusion.  _Why would I do that? The gun! He was going to shoot me, but..._ Harry gasped sharply.  _He shot Tom!_

He immediately forced his upper body to pull a few inches away from that warm, sweaty chest yet again, ignoring the hand on his back trying to hold him close, and traced both of his trembling hands down from Voldemort’s chest to his stomach, searching for a scar or wound by touch because he was unable to see properly from this angle.

“Mmm,” the man’s deep voice moaned above him.

Harry finally looked up at his lover’s face, fretting that it would reflect pain inflicted by his own hands.

Instead he found two red eyes looking down at him through sleepy eyelids.

“Harry,” Voldemort whispered fondly, sleepily, sounding hoarse.

Harry felt a lump beginning to form in his throat and tears sting the back of his eyes.

_Tom was shot and it’s all my fault..._

He watched Voldemort’s eyes widen.

“Harry,” he rasped out, louder than before.

_No,_  Harry mentally chastised himself, squeezing his eyes shut.  _Don’t cry! If he’s angry, you deserve it._

He heard a gasp and was immediately devastated to feel that warm body untangle from him and move away, leaving him feeling cold and empty.

Harry trembled with emotion as he concluded that Voldemort was, indeed, angry for what Uncle Vernon had done.

He was about to open his eyes, but the weight of Voldemort’s body leaving the bed made him feel abandoned, so he opted to keep them closed, not wanting to see the scorn his lover was most likely aiming his way.

_I’m such a coward..._ He thought.  _I should face him and take responsibility._

“Narcissa!” Voldemort shouted, causing Harry to flinch and his eyes to snap open.

The sound of a door banging against a wall as if it had been flung open violently made Harry lift his head up just enough to peer in that direction.

He couldn’t see a thing.

Where were his glasses?

He quickly and silently ‘accio’ed them into his hands and put them on, not realizing that he had actually wandlessly conjured them from nothing.

Now he saw that Voldemort, dressed in a simple black robe that he must have conjured, was pacing back and forth before the open doorway, scowling deeply.

_Okay,_  Harry thought frantically,  _think Harry... Narcissa... I’ve heard that name. Draco’s mother? Then we’re at..._

Harry flinched again when Voldemort growled furiously at the empty doorway before turning toward him.

He immediately dropped his head back to the bed, closed his eyes and curled into a small ball, which caused him to miss the worried expression Voldemort had cast his way.

_Bloody coward!_  He mentally berated himself.  _But he’s definitely mad at me..._

“Narcissa!” came the same shout as before, but it was louder and more urgent.

Before Harry could wonder more about why Voldemort was shouting for Draco’s mother rather than simply calling for a house elf and why they were even at Malfoy Manor, he felt something touch his face.

His eyes snapped open and he jerked back, letting out a small sound of surprise.

It had been Voldemort’s hand, which was now quickly retracting back.

Harry looked up to find Voldemort’s face and was shocked to see it filled with concern rather than anger.

He lifted his head, mouth open to ask about the expression, and slid a trembling arm beneath him to prop himself up, but the words died on his tongue when his arm only managed to tremble harder before collapsing after a few short moments of supporting his weight.

_Why is my arm so weak?_

“My Lord,” Narcissa’s calm, feminine voice announced her presence quietly, “you are finally awake.”

“He is unwell,” Voldemort snapped, drawing Harry’s attention back to his face, which was scowling again, but it was aimed at the woman. “A full evaluation. Immediately.”

“Yes, my Lord,” she replied.

_Unwell? Is he talking about me?_

Harry watched Voldemort take a few steps back while she approached the bed.

The moment those red eyes were on him again, his view was blocked by Narcissa’s body before he could see Voldemort’s expression soften with concern and guilt.

“Hello, young Lord,” she greeted him with a small smile.

Harry stared at her for a short moment, mind currently racing as he tried to piece this strange morning together and form a coherent thought, before answering with a raspy whisper, “Hello.”

Narcissa took out her wand and bent over him, slowly sweeping it over his head and moving downward toward his feet.

Suddenly remembering his nudity, Harry yelped and covered the area between his legs with both hands, blushing when her small smile grew just slightly.

“Do not touch him,” Voldemort snarled. “It seems to cause him pain.”

“I have not, my Lord,” Narcissa replied, her smile widening more, much to Harry’s confusion. “He is simply modest and shy.”

When Voldemort growled, Narcissa’s already wide smile became a full grin and Harry wondered why.

A tingling sensation washed over him.

He looked down to find that he was now dressed in a black robe that was similar to the one Voldemort currently wore.

“Thank you, my Lord.” Narcissa winked at Harry who blushed darker. “I am sure he appreciates it.”

She soon stood from her bent position and cast a few more spells, some on Harry, others in the air.

She had sighed a few times and her smile was completely gone now.

Harry watched her with a confused frown.

“The result is the same as before,” she finally reported, using a professional tone as she turned to the Dark Lord. “I have never heard of such a thing.”

_That isn’t frightening or anything,_  Harry thought with a frown.

“You will call for more healers," Voldemort ordered. "I want only the best. Do not fail to bring one that can give me answers. If Harry is not healed, someone will pay."

_It’s always me._

“The expert will arrive to see Harry shortly," he added. "Adjust the wards accordingly.”

“Yes, my Lord,” she bowed her head. “Of course.” She looked back at Harry once more. “What I do not understand is why he can feel any pain at all. I gave him a pain relieving potion just under an hour ago.”

“What?” Harry whispered, now using both arms to try to push himself up.

They were trembling so badly that it made him angry and he glared down at them.

_I look so pathetic. What is going on?_

“What pain?” Harry whispered, keeping his face turned downward.

“There is no need to act strong,” Voldemort’s voice told him soothingly from right beside his ear. "You are in pain. That much is obvious. Lie back down. I will...”

“No,” Harry nearly shouted. “What pain from touch? What do you mean?”

There was a long pause during which Harry’s arms finally gave out and he collapsed humiliatingly onto his face.

“You were crying when I awoke,” Voldemort finally explained, in a sad and quiet tone, “and you were hurt when I touched your face.”

Any anger or fear Harry felt instantly melted away and was replaced with an immense amount of relief.

_Thank Merlin,_  he thought as he relaxed and turned his head from the mattress to peer up at him, immediately noticing the man’s deeply conflicted expression.

Harry wasn’t sure what he was conflicted about.

He was just happy to know that his Tom was not angry with him and had left the bed because he had thought he had been hurting him.

“No, I wasn’t in pain. I thought...” he began, but paused when he realized Narcissa was still in the room and watching them rather...intensely.

_Awkward..._

Voldemort followed Harry’s gaze, scowled, and told her that she was dismissed.

Once she was gone, Harry reached over and grabbed Voldemort’s hand.

He brought it to his chest and then slowly slid it up to the side of his face.

“No pain,” he whispered, smiling shyly at his lover.

Voldemort did not smile back, but his thumb stroked Harry’s cheek affectionately.

He looked very drained.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“Why don’t you know?”

Harry said nothing, knowing he would elaborate.

“Did you not hear her diagnostic?”

_I’m not sure what to say to that. I don’t feel any pain, but...my arms are weak. What do I say? They didn’t exactly explain anything._

“Why were you crying?” Voldemort’s question interrupted Harry’s thoughts.

“Uncle Vernon...” Harry began, but paused when Voldemort’s eyes and face both flashed with a dark emotion that promised murder. It was gone as quickly as it came, but his shoulders had become and remained tense. “...I thought he had shot you,” he finished.

He watched his words sink in and cause Voldemort's attitude to visibly dissolve into nothing but sadness.

“Do you ever think of yourself, Harry?” he asked softly, leaning closer.

“If someone I love is hurt,” Harry replied just as softly, “I am the last person on my mind.”

“Harry,” Voldemort’s tone sounded chastising, reprimanding, but still gentle and loving, “that should not be so.”

Harry frowned only slightly.

“Don’t tell me not to love you,” he protested automatically.

Voldemort said nothing.

This was the not first time Harry had misunderstood what Voldemort was actually trying to imply.

After a while, Harry asked hesitantly, “Will you help me up?” Then blushed and added, “My arms are weak for some reason.”

The way Voldemort’s eyes lit up at the prospect of him asking for help was both endearing and humiliating for Harry.

They both knew he hated to be a burden and he rarely asked for assistance.

But...

...they also knew that the largest of Voldemort’s creature instincts was to provide for his mate.

It was something they had not quite perfected in their relationship yet.

Because, while he did trust Voldemort, he still had his own pride and, no matter how much he loved the coddling, he wouldn’t admit it to himself or his lover.

“Of course,” was Voldemort’s immediate reply as he stood and began scooting Harry to the edge of the mattress, sitting him upright and gently urging him onto his feet.

“Thank--”

Suddenly Harry’s knees were buckling and he was falling quickly toward the floor.

He didn’t even have time to make a sound of surprise before he was scooped up into Voldemort’s embrace.

Feeling both shocked, embarrassed, and very, very fatigued, Harry panted as he looked up at his lover.

“S...s...sorry,” he stammered,bringing both of his hands up to his chest and clutching the man’s robe, knowing his arms were too weak to wrap around his neck.

A hiss escaped Voldemort’s mouth and Harry recognized it to be one of happiness.

It had taken the entire first year of their relationship for Harry to discern between each different type of hiss that the true and rightful Parselmouth made.

“I am pleased to have you need me,” was the slow, provocative reply he received that was borderline hissed in Parseltongue, while still spoken in English.

Harry’s face turned as red as a tomato and he buried it into the man’s chest.

Another satisfied hiss came from the Dark Lord as he clutched his mate tighter and began walking them toward the adjoining bathroom.

“Great...” Harry muttered into Voldemort’s robe. “I’m the perfect blushing bride.”

He had been trying to make light of the situation, but the appreciative noise that was a cross between another hiss and a moan that came in response to his words somehow made him feel like he had said something dirty.

He hadn’t though, right?

“Tell me, Harry,” -- Harry turned his face from the man's chest to meet his eyes -- “what do you see?”

Voldemort looked up from peering down at him, so he followed that piercing stare and gasped when he saw their reflection in the mirror.

There he was, being held like a bride, blushing like a bride, and wearing a robe that was no longer black but a brilliant white like...

“A bride,” he whispered breathlessly.

Now he focused on Voldemort’s reflection.

He was gazing at the picture the mirror had created of them with a burning voraciousness within those crimson eyes that only seemed to match the carnivorous emotion.

Seeing that type of expression, that type of raw desire, made Harry forget all arguments he had about being considered a bride, which, before this moment, had been purely too feminine for his liking.

His heart was leaping out of his chest.

He needed to change the subject before Voldemort’s creature instincts overtook his mind completely.

If that were to happen, Harry would be in over his head.

Looking up at the his lover’s face, while that deep, red gaze remained fixated upon the mirror, he stuttered, “H-h-help me bathe?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you noticed how my style of writing has changed in just 3 chapters? Wow...  
> You know, I originally believed this would only have 3 or 4 chapters, but here we are with chapter 3 and I have many more ideas.  
> There may be as many as 10.  
> Bear with me. I am still unsure how many chapters it will take for my detail-oriented brain to calm down enough to get to the end.  
> Review if you'd like or just subscribe to receive updates. Thank you.
> 
> I have a tumblr geared specifically toward Harry/Tom and Harry/Voldemort. I have decided I'll start talking about my Fics and Fic ideas as well as my original writing on there too, so if you want to follow me, feel free. Also, I love making HP friends, so message me on there if you want! :) http://amytheauthor.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

"Yessssssssss."

Harry's body involuntarily reacted, a certain area between his legs stirring to attention, at the sound of that one, single word, all because it had glided from Voldemort's tongue in a slow whisper of Parseltongue.

_Oh Merlin,_ he realized, as a mixture of emotions began to stir inside him, _I have no idea how to handle this right now…_

Harry made a whimpering sound on accident and felt his embarrassment heat up his face.

"Actually," he said, looking down from that overwhelming, red stare to Voldemort's collarbone right next to his cheek in an attempt to hide the obvious attraction he knew was written clearly on his face, "I can bathe on my own."

Suddenly the sound of running water filled his ears.

At first Harry’s only thought was that Voldemort hadn't moved, so he wondered how he had cast a spell to turn the faucet on, but then the image of them naked together in the bath rushed to the forefront of his mind and erased everything else.

Harry had been bathed by Voldemort before, but it had been after a very long, difficult conversation about why Umbridge had used a Blood Quill on him and why Voldemort couldn’t torture, then maim, then kill her outside the Ministry where everyone could see.

Needless to say, Voldemort had become overwhelmed with possessive rage and force-bathed him three times to “wash away her filth.”

But that was different.

Now they were going to be naked _together_.

Together meant _at the same time_.

In _very close_ proximity.

_And_ he was now of age, so they could…

Harry's heart was racing with panic as Voldemort turned away from the mirror to head toward the large, white, oval-shaped bath that looked to be made of white, polished marble, surrounded by blue and white tile with a design resembling that of the sun reflecting upon the surface of a body of water.

Its beauty could not currently be comprehended by Harry’s distracted mind.

"Wait!" he called out, beginning to squirm in his lover's arms.

They tightened around him, clutching him into Voldemort’s chest as if his movements were equal to that of a fluttering feather in the wind.

“Get…uhh...” He couldn’t think clearly in his embarrassment, so recalling Draco’s mother’s name was irritatingly difficult. “Get... _that woman!_ That woman that was _just_ here. _She_ could do it.”

That made Voldemort freeze in place.

But he didn’t just stop.

The halt in movement had been abrupt and sharp.

Harry could feel that every muscle in Voldemort’s upper body was now very tense.

A deep sense of foreboding began to rise inside the pit of his stomach.

Perhaps suggesting to _The Dark Lord_ — a possessive Wizard who considered Harry _his_ — that  someone other than _The Dark Lord himself_ should bathe him was _not a good idea_.

He realized that too late.

In the blink of an eye, Harry was pressed against the left wall, legs open.

Voldemort was between them, holding him up with just one arm under Harry.

His other arm was above Harry’s head, so, despite the fact that their faces were inches away and they were now the same height, the added position of that arm made Harry feel extremely overwhelmed — as if Voldemort were towering over him.

It didn’t help that his eyes were burning blood red with fury.

And his expression…

Harry began to tremble in fear.

His hands shook as he reached out to Voldemort’s chest, clutching his robes.

“Haaaaaaaaaarry…”

Oh, god, Parseltongue again.

It was not soothing or kind.

It was sharp, deep, and angry.

“...you belong to me.”

“Yesssss,” Harry hissed back quietly and gently, hoping to placate his mate a little by being as submissive as possible at the moment.

“You are my ssssssssssoul.”

“Yesssss,” Harry replied again.

“Narcisssssa Malfoy will never look upon you again!”

This was hissed quickly, leaving no time for Harry to argue.

Realization dawned on him and all he had time to think was: _Oh no, not again…_

The magic was building in the air around them and what little there was between them.

It felt like sparks of electricity.

“Ssssso mote it be!”

The sparks ignited and snapped in the air.

The vow was complete.

_Please stop there,_ Harry worried inside his mind, trying to use his eyes to beg when words wouldn’t form inside his mouth.

“You will forget Narcisssssa Malfoy.”

He had already known that was coming.

Harry wasn’t sad that he would forget Draco’s mother.

After all, he hardly knew her.

No, he was sad that Voldemort still refused to trust him.

He knew why, but he had made it clear many times that he wanted this Mate Bond just as much as Voldemort.

There was a prodding feeling inside his mind.

The electricity was inside his skull, building, sparking.

“Forget,” Voldemort hissed, gently now, as if willing the magic to be gentle as well. “Forget.”

He could feel the sparks touch different parts of his mind.

It felt warm.

He exhaled.

His body relaxed.

He watched Voldemort’s expression slowly change from anger to…

It was an expression Harry was used to seeing now.

It was something hard to describe.

Sorrow was too much, but sad wasn’t enough.

Anguish felt right, but it was more pain and less sadness than what one would picture when imagining “anguish.”

It was similar to guilt without the regret.

That was the best way to describe the emotion that Voldemort wore whenever he did something Harry hadn’t completely approved of.

Despite not fully approving of this particular method of showing dominance and possessiveness, Harry was not angry.

How could he blame him?

Harry assumed he'd have been the same way if he were in the same situation as Voldemort.

The man had survived _so long_ without his mate.

According to every book Voldemort had shown him when first explaining to Harry what was happening between them and why, any magical person with creature DNA that was mate-dependant died young from suicidal madness if their mate was never found, or died, or something similar.

Death was literally knocking on young Tom Riddle's door.

That was why he had created his first Horcrux at such a young age.

As it were, Harry’s ancestors had had more children than Voldemort’s (due to many different reasons).

That meant that while Harry most definitely felt the pull toward Voldemort as his mate, the creature DNA in his own body was more diluted, allowing him the choice to walk away without any side effects.

Voldemort could not.

Would not.

It was impossible.

He would be forever drawn to Harry, his only mate, until death, should it ever come.

So, when Harry showed even the slightest of interest in another, Voldemort...

Well, actually, at first he'd attempted to kill someone (someone Harry could no longer remember), but after Harry begged for him to stop (which hadn't worked) and finally threatened to leave of his own free will, Voldemort had decided forcing Harry to forget them entirely and keep them away from each other no matter what was acceptable.

Harry had agreed half heartedly.

It was better than murder.

Of course, there was a secret, dark part inside of him (the creature he also had within his veins) that wanted Voldemort to kill whoever that person had been as a display of an Alpha and protection.

It had frightened him the moment he realized it and he had fought that instinct harder than any others he had felt up to this point.

Voldemort was watching Harry, whose eyes were glazed over, lost in thought.

“You made me forget sssssomeone again," he hissed after a while, as calm about it as he had been every time after the first time Voldemort had wiped his memory of someone.

Voldemort didn't feel the need to confirm Harry's statement.

He knew that, while Harry couldn't remember the person, he remembered everything else, so affirmation was unnecessary.

“You belong to me,” was all he felt he needed to say about it.

He was speaking in English now.

Through the haze of Harry's mind, he realized that Voldemort was leaning in closer, slowly, tilting his head to the side.

He gasped and turned his face away as fast as he could.

“No!” he hissed loudly, not able to switch from Parseltongue as quickly and easily as Voldemort. “My mouth. It feels gross!”

Voldemort pulled his upper body away so he could bring his arm down from leaning against the wall.

He snapped his fingers a few inches from Harry’s face.

Harry blinked in shock momentarily because his entire body, not just the inside his mouth and throat, felt a rush of freezing cold temperature.

It disappeared as quickly as it came.

Harry looked into the face of his lover, who was back to his usual calm self.

At least he appeared to be.

There was still something off that Harry could see in his eyes.

“Did you jussst…” he began, slowly easing his tongue back into English, forcing himself to ignore the blush rising to his cheeks at the sound of the embarrassing accent (almost like a slur or a prolonged whisper that followed his every word) he always had whenever he stopped speaking the serpent language, “…clean my entire body?”

There was a small smile forming on the older man’s mouth that Harry couldn’t ignore.

His cheeks burned brighter.

“That is always quite endearing.”

Harry brought his hands to his face and covered it.

His glasses were going to be smudged, but he hardly cared.

“You’re jussssst going to make it worssssse,” he complained.

Voldemort 'hmmm'ed and leaned in again.

Harry knew because of the warm breathing against the back of his hands.

“There are many things I refused to say while you were underage. I can finally say them now.”

The way Voldemort sounded right now, his voice deep and hinting immorality, made Harry’s erection begin to return.

He listened eagerly, despite himself.

“Your manner of speaking Parseltongue is very soft and kind. Even when you are angry.” He chuckled again before continuing, probably remembering something in relation to this information. “I have always found it…” he paused for a moment, “…arousing.”

Harry gasped quietly, thrilled because he was not the only one who found the snake language enchanting.

He moved his hands back to clutching Voldemort’s robes, so he could look into his face.

“Really?” he asked.

Voldemort suddenly moved them from up against the wall — wrapping his free arm around Harry’s back to support him, so he could remain in an upright position — and walked toward the bath that was full and steaming.

Harry was about to begin protesting again when Voldemort continued.

“The way you have trouble pronouncing English after speaking Parseltongue for a long period of time…”

He had effectively baited the hook because Harry was no longer paying attention to anything other than his words.

In fact, he was listening so intently that he didn’t even notice when Voldemort banished his white robe.

Nor did he seem to notice when Voldemort had hesitated before banishing it, since he had taken such a liking to Harry wearing white like a newlywed bride.

“...is almost as seductive as your serpent tongue.”

“Yours isss…” Harry whispered back, the hiss still lingering in his words. “Yoursss…”

He was stuttering and blushing.

It was adorable.

“Your Parseltongue is…sin,” he finally managed to say.

“Ssssssssssin?” The Dark Lord hissed slowly, distracting him enough to finally banish his own robe.

Harry was panting and his pupils were dilated as he, unable to speak English now that Voldemort had returned to Parseltongue, responded.

“Ssssssssssinful.”

Voldemort smashed their lips together in a rough kiss to keep Harry’s mind away from what he was now doing, which was stepping into the warm, almost hot, bathwater and slowly sitting the both of them down at the bottom of the basin.

Harry pulled away, finally taking notice of his surroundings.

He gasped and attempted to escape, but his body was much too weak for him to get further than a few inches away before Voldemort was pulling him back to him by wrapping his arms more securely around him.

“Why do you fear me?” he asked.

Harry saw the raw pain on his mate’s face and his chest constricted.

“You have no reason to fear,” he continued before Harry could answer. “I will never harm you. Never again.”

"I'm, I'm, I'm nervous!" Harry stammered, not sounding the least bit reassuring, despite hoping to.

His heart was beating fast and his veins were filling with adrenaline.

He didn't understand what was going on, but he couldn't stop himself from continuing his futile attempt to push away.

Although the pain remained on Voldemort's face, his eyes were calculating.

"You did run from me when the Bond first made itself known..."

Harry was really having trouble controlling the impulse to get away.

Voldemort watched him struggle.

This wasn't normal.

Something was wrong.

Perhaps it had something to do with Harry's coming of age.

"Your instincts are overtaking your senses."

Voldemort decided to test a theory.

He leaned in again for another kiss, but just as he predicted, Harry jerked away.

"I have a theory," he told Harry who was looking at him pleadingly, begging for an explanation, "but I will wait for the expert to arrive before assuming. For now, I will bathe you."

 

—

Author's note:

I am finally back to this story.

Check out my other Fics if you'd like.

Also, I am on Tumblr. "AmyTheAuthor" is my username.

Lots of love,

Amy


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